From Lowtown Up
by AuthorsRProphets
Summary: Vaan and Penelo are just kids waiting for a change, Balthier is looking for something more while Fran worries and Basch insists he's not going crazy. A retelling of FFXII with some twists. A random OC and no pairings... yet.


_Oh wow, this is my first piece on this site. I'm not sure if it looks that interesting from what I've written as the preview, but give it a try. I enjoyed writing it anyway. I took some liberties with characters and gave them an extra level or so. I also added in a minor character just so I can have fun with my own crazy thoughts. There are some plainly American references, but just ignore them and pretend they're "Rabanastran". :P Enjoy!_

The streets under Rabanastre were always pleasantly dark. How life could thrive in a place with so little light was any philosophers guess.

"Life thrives in places where there is light- " Quoted the abridged, modern version of the memoires of the philosopher Merlose, "Life of the higher degree; complex flora and fauna. The beautiful specimens with complex systems of survival. Without light, there is simply mold."

If this was truely so, then the people of Rabanastre were no better than mold. But contrary to the words of philosophers, beautiful they certainly were- from the palest, most emaciated old man to the fattest, burliest seeq or the crustiest bangaa. They were kind to each other, more kind than they'd ever been, for together they were bound- and together they would escape.

But this feel good philosophy was all but lost on a blond haired boy with a devious twinkle in his eye, even though he was right in the heart of it. Sure, somewhere in his heart he knew it, but he never cared for the sappy stuff anyway. He's rather just do it, but never speak of it ever, lest he emasculate himself. Emasculation was something he never enjoyed, even though he experienced it frequently from his best friend, a pretty blonde girl named Penelo. She had a certain way of doing it that so annoyed Vaan. She would say something, and he, in his hasty teenage state, would ignore it. And then about five minutes later, after he'd thought about what she'd said, he'd be pissed. And then he'd go kill something.

But one doesn't have to be pissed to feel like killing stuff- one can just be an angsty teenager. Like today. Vaan woke up that morning, same as usual, to the sound of Penelo being productive in the next room. He yawned, stretched, scratched himself and got out of bed. He walked into the room where Penelo was and said:

"I'm going to go kill some shit today."

"Don't use that word, Vaan!"

"Why not?"

"It makes you sound like a dullard."

"I'm not a dullard."

"I know, so don't use it."

"Well, it doesn't really matter... all the others around here use it too."

"They shouldn't either!"

"We're low-class Penelo, that's about it and that's why."

"Just because you're low-class doesn't mean you have to act like it."

"... You're just in denial," He grumbled after a pause.

"You're a silly boy sometimes, Vaan."

"Fine, I'm leaving."

"Okay."

Vaan walked from the old house that he, Penelo and about 12 other orphaned kids shared, his old rusty, chipped sword in hand. Nobody freaked out at swords being carried like loaves of bread as much as they used to. These days residents were used to seeing a teenager or two walking towards the sewers, a sword in hand. The sewers, sadly, were a source of food. And not just for orphans, in fact, some killed more than they could eat so they could sell them in the center of lowtown, where all it's poor commerce happened.

Vaan's thoughts began to wander. A silly boy, huh. First off, he wasn't a boy, and second off, he wasn't silly. Silly was a word to describe street performers and frivilous girls, not a determined man such as himself. Penelo was the one who was silly, she and her silly ideals. And her silly hair that stuck up, no matter how hard she tried to not let it. Silliness. At least Vaan's hair was full and luscious and didn't stick up. He was a gorgeous, if unrequited, piece of human being, and if she didn't realize that, it was her fault. She should be happy to have him around. No, not happy, ecstatic. She should be thanking him for gracing the group with his good looks and leadership. Sure, she provided most of the food, but he provided a real role model. The warrior of the streets. Oh yes, that was who he was. He was going to-

Bump into a seeq. A big seeq who looked irrate to begin with. Oops. He apologized and ran off before he could get into any more trouble.

"Hey Vaan!" Squealed a little boy by the entrance to the Garamsythe Waterway. He was a very excitable boy who always seemed to be moving. And he needed a haircut.

"Hey Kytes," Vaan replied, slowing his pace to stop and talk.

"Are you going into the waterway?"

"Yep."

"To hunt?"

"Sure am, Kytes."

"Can I come with you?!"

"I dunno... it might get pretty violent," Said Vaan, stretching in a melodramatic way.

"Aww, but I want to see you hunt rats," Said Kytes, looking crestfallen and truely sad.

"Well... maybe you can come. But only if you stay in an area that's safe. I don't want you

getting bitten."

"Okay Vaan! I'll stay out of the way! Promise! This is going to be exciting!"

"Ah to be young again," murmured Vaan, completely missing the irony of his statement.

--

"Life does not simply thrive where there is easy," wrote a new age enlightenment author, "on the contrary, one can say that life, in a sense, thrives more where it is not easy, for the pressure and challenge force all to struggle. No, life truely thrives where it is not necessarily easy or pleasant, but where it is safe. And that dictates that if an organism must retreat to the darkness to grow strong- then so be it."

A hooded figure sat deep in the garamsythe waterways. The hood and cloak were grey, deep, misty grey, so they blended in with the darkened surroundings of it's habitat. One would not know by looking, but it was actually a she. She. Such a provocative pronoun, she thought. She what? She lived, she breathed, she existed. She had found a room sized gaping in one of the slimy walls and had taken it for her own. It has high enough that no fiends ever found their way in there. The few that did died quickly by her hand. Such a highly placed home would be a problem for most, but not her. She was a climber of an almost supernatural degree. What easier way was there to run than to simply go up?

She had placed a drab curtain over the entrance so that it would feel like a home. She had an old rug for a bed, a dying light stone placed in the center of the room, an old box filled with her sad possessions, and several stacks of books. Most the books were falling apart, since she had to take them as cheaply as possible in order to survive. She did need food after all. However, her one friend, Penelo, did occasionally bring her food when she had extra, or even an old book she had found. Penelo understood that something was wrong.

A few of the books were in high quality, however, some being bound to an incredible degree of beauty. These she would give to Penelo to sell for some extra cash when she was finished with them. She disliked interacting with others in public where they could see her hide her face and wonder.

These books that were nice- she stole them from imperials. Some of them had a bad habit

of reading while on the watch, and she liked to do the Arcadian army a favor and take these distractions away. Penelo wasn't ever thrilled that she had stolen the books, but she sold them anyway.

She was just closing one of these books and thinking. She did not completely agree with this author and his radical ideas regarding age and race in modern society, but he did get credit for being original. She sighed, and put the book aside, then stood up to draw back the curtain and look out from under the hood across the water way.

She was looking for an answer in these books. So far, she had found nothing.

--

A ship sat idly in the Giza plains. Inside, a handsome man and a beautiful viera were just waking up. The viera woke up first as always. She woke with a quiet start with the air of an all knowing goddess. In a way, she was. Still in her night clothes, she walked over to the little hatch-window and opened it. Outside was nothing special, a lot of sand and some dried out plants, not exactly beautiful. But something on the dusty desert wind whispered to her- a whisper she couldn't quite make out.

She threw on a light dress and her stilettos and made for the dining compartment. She made no attempt to dull the metallic clacking of her shoes as she passed by her friend's room.

Inside, a man was sleeping shirtless, face down in his pillow, limbs sprawled across the mattress. He hadn't stayed awake long enough to remove his pants the night before, just his shoes and his shirt. These articles were now splayed across the floor. They had been flying for approximately three days without stopping, and since he didn't trust the autopilot, he had been awake for most of those three days. They had finally touched ground here last night, and he had crashed at about eight o' clock, which he would have found humourous had he not been sleeping. His chamber was dark and cool, and his dreams were full of relief.

The Viera in the mess hall thought quietly to herself as she retrieved a plate and some dull brown biscuits from the cupboards. Her friend had been odd lately. Driven and audacious one minute, then quiet and lethargic the next, though he hid it exceptionally well. They had been in the Tulikan searching for rubies when he had heard the news of the upcoming fete.

"Brilliant, Fran, brilliant. Let's go. No one else is going to rob Rabanastre- it's a conquered city. They'll never expect it. I'm sure we'll find something though."

"Hmm..." Said the ever pensive Viera, "Dalmasca certainly has her fair share of treasures if one knows where to look... I have heard tales. Like the dusk shard..."

"Then lets go!"

"...Lets."

And almost completely on whim, they had flown out to Rabanastre after some treasure that may or may not exist.

He had always been like this, but lately she could sense a growing feeling of restlessness, disquiet and inner turmoil happening in her partner. She had stood outside of his room one night only to hear...

Perhaps she was imagining it. She probably was. Balthier was a fine man of solid mentality who loved sky pirating and life in general. It was ridiculous to think that he was maybe becoming... perhaps...

The smell of slightly burnt biscuits made its way to her nose, and she stopped the oven and retrieved them. She checked the clock atop the oven. It was nine thirty. She would let him sleep until about ten thirty, then she should wake him. She munched on the biscuits and thought about what she was going to have to do that day. She'd best find some information on this castle- such as where the treasury was, though she was usually frighteningly good at guessing. Also, the bike needed some maintenance (as did most of their things). She finished her breakfast and made some tea, then went down to get started on the bike. Let Balthier handle the information. He was good at such things.

At about ten the man in his exhausted state began to stir. He groaned and rolled to the side, not used to sleeping this late in the morning. A very small beam of light cut through the darkness from the window that needed to be repaired after Balthier had gotten frustrated with it a couple weeks ago. Feeling a deadweight in his skull, he began to open his eyes and stare at the room around him, filled with his possessions. In the corner was a tall potted plant that Fran had insisted he put there, and next to it was a small armchair and a shelf of maps with a mahogany box on top. Inside that box was an assortment of rings, bracelets, earrings and necklaces. Being a high-class man from Archades, it was a habit to simply wear jewelry. Mumbling something incoherent about his current state, he propped himself up on his elbows. Something was in his hand, he realized. He looked at it- it was an orange dog he had recieved from his parents when he was very small. His name was Wolfy, he had brown glass eyes and his large jaws curved upwards to smile at Balthier. He wasn't sure why he was holding him, he certainly couldn't remember getting him out. Sometimes he did though, when he felt particularly lonely or nostalgic for days gone by, which he did feel more and more often these days.

"Hello, Wolfy," He said, sitting up, and seeming to forget that he was a 25 year old man.

Wolfy didn't answer back.

"Guess what we're doing today."

Wolfy didn't guess, he just sat there staring up at Balthier with those happy glass eyes.

"We're robbing another castle, surprise surprise. There are a surplus of castles to rob

these days, it seems. It's a perfect plan, though. Nobody expects anyone to lack enough morality to rob a conquered castle. Ah well, we will be robbing the Empire at this point anyway..."

He slid his legs over the side of the bed and sat thinking for a few minutes. How eerily moody he found himself lately. It was most unsettling.

"As long as Fran never notices, I'll be okay," He told Wolfy, stretching. He got up and picked the crumpled black shirt off the floor from the night before. He threw it over his shoulders, not bothering to button it up the front. Fran didn't care.

He was a mess, he realized, looking in his mirror in the dim light. He had his old baggy clothing on, his hair was sticking up in odd places from sleeping and not bothering to shower for a few days and his chest was looking a little flabby at the moment. Worst of all, he needed a shave. He touched his stubbly chin in one of the gestures of manhood and made a face. He'd take care of it before they took care of the robbery in a few days. He looked back across the room. Wolfy looked up at him from the bed and he felt strangely sad.

"Don't worry, I'll be safe," He told him firmly, then turned the handle of the door and stepped out. Outside, Fran had been walking by and overheard him. She gave him a concerned look.

"What?" Asked Balthier, cracking a grin, "You don't have an imaginary friend, Fran? They're quite in style at the moment, actually."

Ever Balthier. Making a joke out of his oddities.

--

Basch Fon Ronsenburg had been alone for over two years. Funny, he thought. When people usually use that phrase, they mean alone as in "without mate or lover", but when he used that phrase, he meant stuck in a rusty bird cage over a dark pit without a soul anywhere. He knew what they were doing- they were trying to drive him mad. They fed him way less than he should of been, and they found ways to do it so that he still felt alone. Occasionally some political figure would walk in and make some snide remarks, and Basch would answer the same way he'd answer anybody, really. They were failing with the whole "let's drive Basch mad" thing. The only thing that didn't sit well with him originally was the deep, dark pit he was hanging over that occasionally amplified the screams of the tortured. He'd already been tortured and it didn't really phase him so that part wasn't terrible, but he had always hated heights. Heights, and strangely the darkness. But, after a couple months of that, he could care less. It was the same old every day.

Basch had always been a bit of a loner. Sure, he was friendly, and people liked him, but he also liked his personal space. He found the stresses of putting on social facades to be a little too daunting sometimes, so instead of killing himself to be that party animal that everyone loved, he would rather kick back, zone out, and talk to the people who didn't care what he was.

He had a private room in the soldiers quarters, with the excuse that he was a captain. He had to share a common area with Vossler and a few others, but they understood and respected him, and he got to be alone when he wished to be. Thinking about it- most people were alone at various times. One had to be. It was simply natural. After all, who wants to use the toilet with a companion?

The problem wasn't madness. It was, however, boredom. Two years with barely any human interaction and nothing to busy his hands with left Basch feeling incredibly bored with his life. He couldn't even move. It was upsetting to think that in two years he had not moved really more than a couple of inches by himself.

It was for this reason that Basch occasionally found himself humming tunes that he'd once swore he'd never hum. Songs such "I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy", and "If You're Happy and You Know It (Do This Action)". And then he realized what he was doing and he stopped. And then he would zone out and start doing it again. And then he would get frustrated with himself because he realized he really couldn't help it, and there was nothing he could do. So sometimes he just gave in and sang the song out loud. And the he'd realize he couldn't remember half the words and then he'd be really pissed. That was the problem with being alone. Your thoughts became incredibly irrational.

There were two people that visited him occasionally, though. They had walked in about a year ago and asked Basch what he was doing there. He explained it to them, and then asked what they were doing. They didn't know. He decided that this was outlandish, but accepted it. They were in a prison, after all.

"What are your names?" He asked.

"We don't know that either," they replied.

"Well then how will I address you?"

"Hmm, that is a good question... what if we made up names?"

"That sounds like a good idea."

They thought for a moment. Basch was never very good with made up names.

"Uhh, what about Benjamin?" He asked.

"That sounds like a good name for me," Said the one that resembled a male.

"And I will call myself Taylor," Said the female.

Benjamin and Taylor didn't really look like any humes Basch had ever seen. Benjamin had an elongated face and thick wild hair that fell over light eyes. He had a dark coat on. His most prominent feature, however, was a set of large, black ram's horns that grew from his head. He had a sweet smile that made Basch trust him, and he found him to be very handsome.

He found Taylor a little unsettling, however. She was a whispy blonde with incredibly dark, and sometimes vacant eyes. Like Benjamin's horns, she had a silvery tail that fell out from under her white dress. Tails were supposedly the sign of werepeople and mutants, and it made him nervous. She was nice enough, though, and her voice was full and melodious.

After their first meeting, Basch rarely saw Benjamin and Taylor together. They would come individually and talk to him about various things, occasionally what was going on out in the world, which the two always seemed to know about.

"New consul's coming to Rabanastre soon," Said Benjamin, perched on the edge of the pit, smoking a cigarette like some of the other captains used to. Basch personally didn't care for smoking himself, but the smell of it faintly was comforting.

"What's his name?"

"Vayne... Vayne Solidor. Ever heard of him?"

"Perhaps. ... It doesn't matter as long as he is good to the people of Dalmasca."

"Oh, he seems like a good man to me..."

"I do hope he is."

"Who the hell are you talking to, Sir-Lord-Captain Basch?" Chortled the dirty bangaa mechanic who had come to fix some of the levers and mechanisms controlling the central block of the prisons.

Basch jumped in his cage and looked wildly at the Bangaa, then back at Benjamin with a confused expression. Benjamin raised a half concerned eyebrow then went back to smoking and staring into the pit.

"Nobody. Just myself." He told the bangaa somewhat unsurely.

The bangaa laughed almost sympathetically.

"Ah," he sighed, "They told me the great Basch Fon Ronsenburg was finally going mad. I didn't believe them, but I guess it is so."

Basch whirled to face Benjamin, a panicked look in his eye.

"I'm not mad!" He cried.

"Of course not, and I'm not a mechanic," Said the bangaa.

Benjamin sighed and looked up at his friend.

"Don't you remember, Basch?" He asked.

"What?" Asked Basch.

"I'm imaginary, simply imaginary," he said with a grin. Basch's body went as slack as physically allowed.

Basch Fon Ronsenburg was completely and totally mad.


End file.
